


Springerella

by Sophisticated_Adult



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Crack, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophisticated_Adult/pseuds/Sophisticated_Adult
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Springer is Bad At Fairy-Tales. Well, it just wasn't something he ever thought would come up, you know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me writing, like, actual het. What is this.

"Perceptor!"  
  
Springer gratefully latched on to the comm. link and felt the relief wash through his systems. Perceptor would sort this out. He knew things.  
  
"Perce, tell me I've not gone crazy. I think Roadbuster has."  
  
There was a pause longer than Springer would have liked. When Perceptor spoke, he sounded uneasy. :Roadbuster is...acting within normal perimeters:  
  
"The slag he is! He called me a cleaning drone and he's hanging out with a pair of 'Cons! He's glitched or brainwashed and my weapons won't work and I don't really want to jump him in case the 'Cons join in, even though he really needs some sense beaten into him. I'm his commander! What the slag is going on? Where is everyone?"  
  
There came the sound of a long-suffering sigh. Springer hadn't meant to rant but once he started it just sort of welled up and escaped. He was confused and angry and really wanted to hit someone, but he was outnumbered since Roadbuster had decided that Galvatron and Cyclonus were his new best friends.  
  
:Please be patient, Springer, I will explain as much as I can but if I talk for too long or with too many people, I will be noticed. Are you familiar with _Cinderella?_ It's a very famous human story:  
  
"No, somehow I have better things to do than read human stories. What does this have to do with-"  
  
:Please just read this file, Springer. I will contact Roadbuster next and hopefully he will come to his senses. But I will need to talk to everyone, understand? Lie low until I next contact you after I've distributed the file to everyone. They will all be as confused as you and I risk too much if I use the main channel. I promise you'll be the first one I talk to after I've briefed everyone:  
  
"Is this a mission?"  
  
:Perhaps it might help if you think of it in that way. Read the file, please, it will give you an idea of how to act. You are being watched:  
  
"What-"  
  
:Perceptor out:"  
  
"Perceptor!"  
  
No response. Springer swore until he felt better, then opened the stupid file.  His optic ridges went higher and higher as he read.  
  
No, really, what the slag was this?  
  
\---  
  
"So who says I'm ugly?" Roadbuster growled, deeply missing his weapons. He'd gone straight to Springer and apologised. Getting Perceptor's call had been like waking up from medical stasis. Springer let his earlier words and actions go because he knew his old friend hadn't meant them, but that didn't mean Perceptor was safe, inasmuch as he could do anything to a voice on the comm channel.  
  
:It is simply the role you have been assigned, Roadbuster. In human terms the story is extremely old:"  
  
"So who's doing the assigning?" Springer asked. They were hiding out from the 'Cons in the kitchen, under Roadbuster's assurances that they wouldn't step one single foot there while they were under the influence of whatever weird slag was going on as that, apparently, was Springer's job. Springer hadn't cleaned a single thing since he'd woken up here and after reading the file and hearing that he didn't intend to. Cybertronians didn't even use plates but there they were, inexplicably dirty and ready to be cleaned as the story decreed.  
  
Slag that. And he wasn't mopping anything, either.  
  
:It is...unclear. I have assurances from the Cephalo that it is not their doing, but I have little proof:  
  
"Fragging telepaths," Roadbuster muttered. "It's gotta be them."  
  
:Nonetheless, they insist that if you all stick to your roles and act out the story, you will wake up with no harm done:  
  
"Go frag yourself, Percy! I'm not gonna be some high and mighty noble trashing Springer all the time!"  
  
"Cool it, RB." Springer placed a hand on his shoulder. "It sounds like we don't have much choice. Who else is in here with us?"  
  
 :Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Arcee and Blurr. And Galvatron and Cyclonus, who you've met:  
  
The very first joint negotiations with Autobots and Decepticons alike representing Cybertron to another species. The Cephalo had seemed nice enough and were eager to ally in order to get out of Galvatron's cannon-fire if nothing else. But as Roadbuster said, you really couldn't relax around a telepath, never mind an entire species of them.  
  
Roddy was somehow going to find a way to blame himself for this.  
  
\---  
  
Springer silently vowed that, no matter whose fault this was, he was going to find them and punch them in the face.  
  
"Here's your-" he had to bite down a number of words he wanted to say because Perceptor had been adamant that there was no swearing in _Cinderella_ , "energon." He had to settle for slamming it in front of Galvatron and Cyclonus while fighting back the urge to chuck it at their heads. Perhaps he was being unfair, since Perceptor had contacted them again to let them know that Scourge was with him, and the two Decepticons he was unwillingly serving energon to reacted much like Roadbuster once their lieutenant lifted the weird mind-fog. (Even in the anger and confusion, Springer could still appreciate Perceptor leaving Scourge to explain slag to the 'Cons; let someone else deal with Galvatron's madness when it broke).  
  
Strangely enough, though, he wasn't feeling all that charitable towards them.  
  
Roadbuster looked miserable, though. His shoulders were hunched and he refused to meet Springer's optics when he put the third cube rather more gently on the table. Teaming up with Springer in Autobot solidarity would defy the precious fragging story, so instead he sulked next to Cyclonus. Who, Springer knew, wouldn't touch his energon until Galvatron drank. And Galvatron was just sitting there with his arms folded, optics smouldering in fury. Something was going to die, but Scourge and Cyclonus seemed to have convinced him that, for now, it wouldn't be Springer and Roadbuster.  
   
Which boiled down to the fact that he'd actually gone and actually served them the damn energon like he'd been dictated to, and the bastards weren't even going to drink it.  
  
"It's not poison," he snapped.  
  
No-one moved, except for Roadbuster sinking lower into his seat.  
  
"I hear," Cyclonus said, fidgeting with his hands in his lap, "that the..." he looked over to Galvatron, some beseeching question in his optics. His master merely nodded. "...the...prince...will have a...ball. At the castle." He spoke the words as though he'd ingested something foul.  
  
"Sounds...interesting," Roadbuster ground out.  
  
They all looked at him expectantly.  
  
"Oh! Right, that. Um, wow. I really love...those. Maybe we should go?"  
  
Close enough to the story. The universe - or wherever they were right now - didn't implode.  
  
"It's said," Galvatron cut in, optics glittering, "that the Prime will choose a partner."  
  
There was dead silence.  
  
"It's prince, you slagger!" Roadbuster roared, surging to his feet. "At least try to follow it!"  
  
"Easy!" Springer called, alarmed at his friend's outburst. "I'm sure our dear" (ugh) "brother was simply mistaken." He plastered an attempt at a smile on his face to show that yes, Roadbuster, he was fine, no he wasn't blaming his fellow Wrecker, no he didn't need to get righteously indignant at a time like this but Springer was flattered, really. They all looked at Galvatron, who seemed to be fighting some mighty internal battle.  
  
"I - will not - cower!" He clenched a fist, squeezing his anger back in on itself.  
  
:That's a fair point, though: Roadbuster commed him. He seemed to have calmed down watching Cyclonus fuss as his Lord struggled with his defined role. :What happens if we say 'slag this'? Our weapons are offline so we can't bust our way out, but...:  
  
:I bet Roddy still has the Matrix,: Springer replied. :If we gathered everyone, maybe he could...: What? Blow a hole in not-reality with the most revered and holy relic known to their kind? Was that easier or harder than just following along? Would Roddy agree with that assessment? Did this count as a 'darkest hour' simply because they didn't want to play?  
  
:Forget it: Springer muttered. :I don't think we wanna mess around with that stuff unless it's seriously the last resort:  
  
:Pass it on to him, though: Roadbuster suggested. :It's the best shot we have right now:  
  
\---  
  
He didn't even want to go to the stupid ball. That was what Springer told himself as he sat on the bottom stair of the house and stewing with - not rage, exactly, because this whole situation was bizarre and stupid, but it was something unpleasant. Roadbuster had looked truly wretched as he'd left for the ball with the two Decepticons.  
  
After they'd gone, Springer had tripped over a mop and bucket he was pretty sure hadn't been there earlier. Instead of doing his literary duty, he'd kicked it and was now staunchly refusing to acknowledge it's existence. Since then, he could feel it glowering at him two rooms away and the pressure built up in the back of his processor to obey, to conform to the story and play the downtrodden cleaning drone.  
  
Slag. That.  
  
He considered taking a a walk in the night air, to cool his head a little and see more of this weird place they'd all ended up in, when a sudden brightening of the gloomy house made him look up. In front of him was a collection of shimmering, golden dust motes, which clumped together to form -  
  
"Arcee!"  
  
"Springer," she greeted, touching down on the wooden floor as though she was weightless. When he jumped to his feet, she was already leaning into the hug.  
  
"Are you telling me," Springer said, once he'd felt warm, solid metal and decided that she was real: "that I get stuck as a cleaner while you get actual magic powers?"  
  
Arcee just chuckled. "That's the point, Springer. Haven't you heard of rags to riches? It wouldn't be a very interesting story if you started out with everything you wanted and everything solved for you."  
  
"This is messed up."  
  
"I didn't say it wasn't. Do you know what I was doing before Perceptor snapped me out of it? I was singing with bluebirds." She manoeuvred herself so that they were optic-to-optic, and despite himself Springer leaned back.  Arcee didn't get like this very often these days, but it was still scary when she did.  
  
"And my magic powers are that I can put you into a dress. So remember that." She abruptly took a step back and it was as though nothing had happened.  
  
"I don't think we'll need that, though. You look fine to me. Just a polish, then?"  
  
"Uhh, I guess," Springer managed. His processor was still scrambling to catch up to what had just happened. "All right. I'll spare you the singing. And..." Arcee twirled something in her hands - some kind of stick Springer hadn't even  noticed until now - and pointed it straight at him. It was uncomfortably like staring down a loaded cannon.  
  
"Is something supposed to happen?" Springer ventured after a few kliks. he didn't feel any different.  
  
"Oh, what, really?" Arcee twirled the stick again, inspected it with one optic, and sighed. "I suppose we're lucky enough to get away with no singing. All right, then." The stick pointed at Springer again - he was starting to think of it as 'the loaded end.'  
  
"Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo."  
  
A silvery light shot out of it, and Springer barely had time for a shocked yell before it engulfed him, picked him up and lifted him into the air - he swore later that he'd been spun a couple of times, just for the hell of it. The light flared over and across his body and left a strange tingling sensation in it's wake. It felt much longer than the half a breem it took to deposit him gently back on the stairs. Springer wobbled slightly as the light went out and caught his balance on the banister, and stared at his arm when he did.  
  
"Wow." He gave a low whistle, turning his hand this way and that. Even in the darkness his armour now had a reflective shine. "I don't think I was this polished when I was new." Arcee nodded and smiled to herself in satisfaction. "You'll do. I already did the coach and everything, you know, to save time, so you can go when you're ready."  
  
"Yeah, right." He'd totally forgotten about transport. Even though, you know, he could turn into a car or a helicopter, but apparently that wasn't good enough. Something else suddenly occurred to him, now that he was thinking about the story again. "Am I actually gonna have to fall in love with Roddy? I mean, I like the guy, but..." he didn't think he'd be able to fake that convincingly enough, or survive when Galvatron came after him if he did. Anyone stepping in between those two was going to get his head blown off.  
  
"Oh, Springer." Arcee smiled, then closed the distance between them and gently circled her arms around him. "I asked Perceptor, actually. Apparently you can get away with quite a lot of things as long as the basics are there and Cinderella gets a happy ending." He supposed that was how he got away with not cleaning anything - it was preferred, but in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter as long as he was appropriately downtrodden.  
  
"Well, here's the happy ending right here. No ball needed."  
  
"Not quite. You boys will have to work something out."  
  
"Well," Springer let out a dramatic sigh. "I suppose later we can find out that we weren't really meant for each other. And also that I don't want Galvatron to kill me."  
  
"Mmm. Roddy will be devastated, I'm sure." Arcee's hands moved upwards until she could pull his head down, and Springer eagerly accepted the kiss - much too brief for his tastes, but he supposed that this was a mission and they were on a time limit.  
  
"Don't tell me you've never thought about it. Me and him."  
  
"Maybe." Arcee's hands were moving again, reaching up to his rotors. First they spun one way, then the other. It was her little ritual, to make sure he came back. A signal that she was ready. He couldn't resist going in for a quick kiss against her cheek, like he always did. "Wish me luck."  
  
\---  
  
Now this was more like it: riding through the streets in the big, shining carriage (although Springer carefully avoided asking what it used to be). He was surprised but pleased when Arcee climbed in after him, and they settled together in a comfortable silence.  
  
"One thing," Arcee said as they rolled up to the grand castle - nice to see some mechs were doing all right for themselves. "Remember the story. Remember what happens at midnight."  
  
"Right, right, yeah. Wait - slag! I don't have a glass slipper!" He'd looked up 'slipper' in his copy of a human dictionary that got handed out to all Autobots who made it to Earth, and it was supposed to be comfortable footwear in a casual setting. Why in Primus' name someone would make a glass one he didn't know, but it was in the story and he didn't have one.  
  
"You'll be fine." Arcee's hurried whisper and a light shove was the last he saw of her. One moment she was there, the next - boom. No fancy effects, she was just...gone. Frag. It looked like he was alone from here on out. "Midnight," Springer muttered. That was when everything reset and he ran away in shame, right? Or something like that.  
  
It looked like he had about six human hours, according to his chronometer, until midnight. What exactly was he supposed to do in that time? He got the feeling that simply marching up to Roddy wasn't going to fly. Not enough drama, or something. Well, he wasn't going to get anything done sitting here. He was about to shove the door open when it was pulled open for him, and Springer nearly overbalanced and fell on the person who'd done the pulling.  
  
"Oh, hello Springer, I was wondering when you'd turn up because Perceptor said you were important and you had to be here but you weren't and I've been waiting and waiting and there's nobody else here!"  
  
Oh, geez. "Sorry, Blurr. I'll take you skydiving later."  
  
"That's good, it seems like forever since we last went. You know I'm supposed to be the announcer but they all ignore me, only Roadbuster and Galvatron and Cyclonus even noticed I was there, those nobles were so rude but I think there might be something wrong with them they're sort of creepy you'll see when we get there-"  
  
Springer found himself relaxing under the torrent of words. You either got used to Blurr or you went insane; happily, most of them had managed the former. Springer even let Blurr help him down, feeling charitable towards the mech who clearly hadn't been assigned a glamorous role in tonight's events. The speedster even kept pace with him as he walked up the long pathway - that is, Blurr raced to the entrance, zipped back to Springer, then repeated the process until Springer reached the big double doors. They opened ponderously yet silently with just a push, reminding Springer of some of the tales of the great Temple of Primus' huge doors that had never closed.  
  
The great hall they entered was filled with Cybertronians milling about, none of them particularly striking - there was no sign of either Roadbuster or the two 'Cons. There was no-one he recognised, not even - to his slight surprise - Rodimus enjoying the party, with Ultra Magnus hovering disapprovingly a few steps behind. They would have drawn the optic like a magnet in this bland crowd. To Springer's annoyance, Blurr bustled past him and cupped his hands.  
  
"Announcing -"  
  
Then, most unusually, Blurr hesitated. He glanced from Springer to the crowd of mechs, giving enough time for everyone in the room to turn and look at them.  
  
"Announcing...mysterious beautiful stranger!"  
  
He bolted before Springer could even react. The slam of the heavy doors filled the silent room by the time Springer realised what he'd said - but it wasn't really Blurr's fault, right? It was the story. As far as it was concerned he really _was_ a mysterious beautiful stranger.  
  
"What are you all looking at?" Springer snapped. Some very distant part of him was thinking that not even Arcee had called him beautiful before. He squashed that thought down at the same time as he was preparing to shoulder aside the crowd - he was easily the biggest mech here - to get to the tables laid with all kinds of energon, every colour and grade possible from the look and smell of it, but the mechs parted before him as if they were pushed by an unseen force, leaving a clear path forwards. All of a sudden, he instantly knew what Blurr had been talking about. That was _creepy_.  
  
They looked far too fancy to be drones, but even the most disciplined squadron in the universe wasn't that in sync - unless maybe it was a bonded combiner team. With this amount of mechs? No way. He decided to test his theory by grabbing two cubes of warm orange mid-grade, picking out a mech in the crowd at random and shoving the second cube into unresisting hands.  
  
"Pretty lousy party, huh? Energon's good, but no much else. This prince thinks he's better than all of us, hey?" These mechs - they were all mechs, he'd noticed, not a single femme as far as he could see - kinda looked like they were nobles, like Blurr had said, except there were no nobles any more: the partially rebuilt Cybertron hadn't yet had a chance to develop an upper class. None of them bore any insignia either, no Autobots or Decepticons,  and it even looked like he was the only war-build here. There weren't any weapon mods that he could see, not even a slagging pistol. They were completely helpless. It was kind of unsettling; it was no wonder nobody he knew had stuck around.  
  
The mech he'd picked was the most un-Decepticon shade of purple he'd ever seen, almost a pastel lilac, and the only response he gave to Springer's question was a vague smile. A hard look at his optics confirmed it. This whole crowd was a bunch of noble drones.  
  
"All right, then," Springer said, backing off as he did so, and they all turned to watch him. "I think I have to go...to the...place."  
  
He did not run. But he did head for the nearest exit quite quickly. No-one tried to stop him as he pushed open a door to reveal a large walled garden, cool with the night breeze. _Okay,_ Springer thought, shutting the door behind him and putting the creepy scene he'd just witnessed out of his mind; he was on a mission. _I'm Rodimus Prime. Maybe I saw those mechs and freaked out, maybe I didn't. Either way, where do I end up? Probably wherever Magnus is. Okay. I'm Ultra Magnus trying to chaperone Roddy and keep this whole thing in one piece somehow. Where do I go? An office; failing that, a quiet room somewhere..._  
  
Slag. At least he had plenty of time.


	2. Chapter 2

He found Roadbuster purely by accident after picking a staircase at random and spotting him lurking by a balcony. He looked up when he heard Springer approach, expression neutral.

"How's it goin'?" 

"Pretty bad," Springer admitted. "I have no idea where anyone is. Well, I found Blurr earlier, but, y'know, that's not who I need to find."

Roadbuster nodded. "Whole place is a damn maze. I managed to lose the 'Cons pretty quick. Did you see that lot downstairs? Didn't even move when Galvatron yelled at them. He was real mad, like he was angry they weren't proper mechs. Cyclonus had to drag him out."

Springer shrugged. Who cared about Galvatron and his issues? "So...you don't know where Roddy might be? Even Magnus would help," but even as he said it Springer could tell it was a lost cause. Roadbuster wouldn't be out here by himself if he'd found anyone.

"Sorry." His fellow Wrecker shook his head. "No idea. Could probably have Blurr search this whole place out in a nanoklik if you could catch him."

Springer was actually impressed. He hadn't even thought of something like that. "Yeah! That's a great idea," he said, knowing that Roadbuster rarely got the chance to be praised for his inventiveness. "Why don't you try and find him? I'll keep looking up here." Roadbuster nodded his head enthusiastically, happy at having a solid plan and an objective he could follow. "Right!" He clapped Springer on the shoulder. "Good luck on your end. We are gonna win this!" Springer wasn't really sure this was about winning and losing, but it was nice to see him fired up after being so miserable earlier. 

After Roadbuster clattered down the stairs, giving a cry of "Wreck and rule!" that made him smile, Springer was left alone again. He stood there for a few kliks, wondering what the hell he was doing.

"This is not going to work," he said, to the universe in general as well as to whoever was 'watching' them. Perceptor had refused to elaborate on this, but it had stuck in the back of Springer's mind as a pretty important point. He tried to comm the scientist just for the hell of it, vaguely hoping he might be directed to where Rodimus was if he got through.

:Perce...?: 

Nothing. Not even static. A sudden, profound sense of loneliness washed over him, unfamiliar and unpleasant.

"Springer?"

He whirled around at the impossible voice, hardly able to believe that he'd heard right. But there he was, one of the mechs he'd been searching for, solid and reliable and dependable and every wonderful adjective that existed, right at this moment.

"Magnus!" Springer barely restrained himself taking a running leap and clinging to the solid wall of everything is going to be okay. That was more of a Rodimus thing, but right now he could see the appeal. There was a lot of Ultra Magnus that you could cling to.

"You are much later than we expected," Magnus said, his voice the precise clip Springer had learned meant there would be absolutely no messing around, not even if you were the Prime and also really bored, did you really have to do all this paperwork and sit in on these stupid meetings?

"I'm supposed to be late. I wasn't allowed to go with the others," Springer defended himself, falling into easy step behind Magnus' long strides without question. It was then that he noticed how tired Magnus looked, harassed and harried to the brink of exhaustion, but still keeping up a quick pace. 

"Is Rodimus okay?" _Are you okay_ , he wanted to ask, but Magnus would just brush it off as irrelevant. He always did, even when Rodimus yelled at him for it. Even when First Aid got cross at him for it.

"He is," a brief pause as Magnus tried to settle on a diplomatic word, "unharmed."

Springer's spark suddenly tightened at the way he said that. It didn't help that he knew what that was Magnus' personal code for, when it came to Roddy.

It meant that Galvatron had found him first. But Rodimus wasn't actually hurt, even if he wanted to be, and Magnus wouldn't have left them alone if he thought Galvatron would truly try anything. It must have taken some impressive convincing from Magnus (and perhaps even Cyclonus) to hold the two leaders back long enough for the story to play out, even if it was wrong. Springer went just a little faster, wanting this whole thing to be over with so they could all go back to normal, even Galvatron.

Finally, Magnus stopped outside an ornate door. He held out one hand, large fingers curling around the handle. If Springer didn't know better, he'd say the big mech was bracing himself.

Then, he pushed.

"We weren't doing anything!"

Springer heard Rodimus before he saw him, still obscured by Magnus' bulk. They took a step further into the opulent room, and suddenly it was clear why Rodimus was on the defensive. 

"We just talked," the Prime said, flashing optics daring anyone, anyone at all, to say anything about the fact that he was in Galvatron's lap. One dark hand lay across his waist, pinning him against the larger Decepticon, while the other held claim to his ridiculously oversized spoiler. 

Off to the side was Cyclonus, leaning inconspicuously against a far wall. Neither Decepticon spoke; Galvatron's savage grin said it all.

Magnus simply sighed. He'd probably seen this before, Springer realised.

"I have brought the one you requested," he said, even more stiff and formal than usual. "As we discussed."

"Er, right," Rodimus replied, optics flicking from Springer to Galvatron and back again. He elbowed Galvatron in the side with nothing like the full strength the Matrix had given him in his Primely body, lurking just below the surface. The Decepticon grunted and - amazingly - let his Prime go. Cyclonus became animate by pushing himself away from his wall; Galvatron leaned forward to whisper-hiss something into Rodimus' audials. 

"Yeah, I know, all right? I can actually listen to things, whatever Magnus tells you." 

Rodimus was either better at hiding it or wasn't as affected as Magnus, but the joke still fell flat under his strained cheer. He sounded about as bad as Magnus looked, if you knew the signs.

"As long as you remember it." Galvatron nodded to Cyclonus and that was that, although as they walked past the two Autobots Cyclonus did give Springer a Look, one that was instantly recognised as having nothing to do with what his current role dictated. I Do Not Approve, it said: You Are Not Worthy. Arrogant bastard. And with this precariously precious peace, forged mainly by the fact that Rodimus _was_ worthy by whatever metric the Unicronian-forged Decepticons used, Springer couldn't even punch him for it. He had to settle for glaring and balling his hands up so he wouldn't cause an Incident, as they were known.

If any other mechs in the room noticed Cyclonus' small gesture, nobody commented on it. Magnus left with the 'Cons, and the door closed with a final-sounding click. This was it, Springer realised. No backing out now. No throwing up his hands and saying, "No, this is too stupid, I'm not doing it." Not with Rodimus standing there and looking at him. Springer didn't trust himself to speak, afraid of what he might end up saying in this messed-up world. They simply watched each other for a few kliks; apparently neither of them had any idea of how they were supposed to go about this. It had kind of been glossed over in the manual Perceptor had given them, or at least it had in Springer's version. The prince was really kind of a footnote, a "congratulations, your life no longer sucks!" for the main character. It was a big step up from being treated like a cleaning drone, but Springer suddenly realised that it didn't give Rodimus a whole lot to go off other than 'rich'.

As if in response to his thoughts, Rodimus let out a worn-out sigh, straightened up, and said: "All right, then." 

He damn well _sauntered_ across the small distance between them, until Springer found himself pressing against the door alarmingly quickly. Primus, how had he never noticed those hips before?

Possibly at this point the actual Cinderella would be thinking that all her dreams were coming true. Springer just noticed how it was still weird that Rodimus was taller than him.

"Hang on," he said, trying to back up further against the solid wood, conscious of every step Rodimus took, the heavy, familiar tread of his foot muffled in the ridiculously plush carpet. "Let's not go crazy here- just wait a moment!" Oh, Primus, what if Rodimus tried to kiss him? He was the sort to think that it was just crazy enough to work. And, annoyingly, it very often did when Rodimus was involved. It took the wind out of your sails when you yelled at him for being a big, dumb, reckless afthead when he could say, "Yes, but it worked."

That didn't mean Springer was going to go easily.

As it turned out, he didn't have to knee his best friend in the groin because Rodimus actually stopped and listened for once in his life. 

"Are you scared?" His voice was soft, soothing, but before Springer could balk at what had just been said he switched over to their private comm. link, on the channel they'd set up for themselves long before either of them had ever seriously thought of joining up with the Autobots.

:Just play along, Spring. Remember when we tricked Kup into thinking we were bonded?:

Yeah, because that had worked out so well. It had been a drunken bet - Springer was pretty sure Blurr was the culprit, but no-one ever came forward to claim responsibility. After they'd sobered up, neither he nor Hot Rod wanted to be the first one to back out, so things kind of ...escalated, until they had a dramatic, play-acted falling out over exactly how many kliks it would take for Optimus to beat Megatron in a fair fight.

:I don't think we actually fooled him. He probably just thought we fragged and were being dumb kids about it:

:Whatever: Rodimus managed to convey an expressive shrug purely through the medium of the comm. link, which wasn't quite sound and certainly wasn't movement. To whoever their mysterious watchers were - and possibly Perceptor and Scourge as well - it would look like they were just staring at each other, quite obviously talking over comms to anyone who knew their Cybertronians.

"I've just never, um, done this before," Springer admitted. But that wasn't really true, was it? He'd played this game before, under vastly different circumstances. The goal was to out-simper Rodimus, to come up with the most ridiculous romantic nothings just plausible enough to keep their extremely flimsy cover intact.

It took Springer quite a while to work out why Arcee refused to speak to him that entire cycle.

"Oh, surely not one such as you," Rodimus said, launching his offensive. "Oh sparklight of my optics."

Damn, that was a good one.

:I've been saving that for half a vorn: Rodimus smugly informed him, all the while earnestly playing the romantic hero, wide-opticked at the meeting of his True Love.

"Ah, my lord, you flatter me," Springer shot back, making a spirited attempt at 'coquettish,' which was a very hard expression to pull off with no eyelids. Optic-lids. Whatever. Point was, Springer was not going to lose this. Last time had been mercifully declared a draw, mostly because no-one could remember what the actual terms of the bet were. Deep inside Springer knew he'd won, because the day after, Arcee punched and then kissed him and said they were both a pair of idiots.

Oh, it was on. No way in the Pit was Rodimus knocking him off his hard-won victory throne!

Or...something.

\---

Frag everything, frag his life - how could he have forgotten about midnight?! He set a fragging alarm! Twice! And it hadn't gone off!

Springer kept up a mental stream of swearing directed at everyone and everything he could think of as he ran, taking steps two at a time down the enormous staircase. 

And now he was goddamn running from his best fragging friend who he wasn't in love with but someone out there wanted - whoa!

He stumbled and just managed to catch himself, but now his outflung arm was tarnished and dull, boring. Just green. No-one would call that beautiful, not even Arcee. 

That could have been a nasty fall, though, it was a good job he hadn't gone tumbling head-over-rotors the rest of the way - 

Wait.

Springer's optics narrowed. He could feel the pressure building up again, now he'd stopped. He was supposed to do someth-

The slipper! This was where it was supposed to slip off his foot (huh, so it did make sense after all) as the only key for the bereft prince to find his fleeing love. That thing.

That thing he didn't have.

Springer looked around wildly. It probably didn't have to be an actual slipper, just something that would lead Roddy back to him, but - what? His subspace was empty. He didn't even have a spare gun. And the longer he stood here dithering, the more the blind fear and panic that was wholly not his own rose up in his processor - _he was going to get caught!_ \- by who, he told himself furiously, Rodimus? Oh, how terrible that would be.

But of course it didn't work like that.

One thing. One fragging thing! What did he have? 

_I have myself._

At the time, he didn't question it when the answer presented itself in perfect clarity. Later, when it was all over, he would be suspicious that perhaps it hadn't been the brilliant bolt of insight he thought it was. But, here and now, Springer thought: _yes_.

He straightened up, suddenly calm now he had a solution. 

"Just hope I don't need this any time soon," he muttered, then took firm hold of the nearest rotor blade.

It was worryingly easy. One good wrench and twist and it clattered to the floor. He cut off the beeping alert that immediately popped up, gritted his teeth against the sharp pain, and cancelled the automatic self-repair. The break needed to match up, otherwise that could be any old 'copter alt-mode that had just ripped off their own rotor blade _what was WRONG with him_ \- 

Keep moving. The pressure abated slightly.

In the end, it had been another draw.

\---

Springer didn't even know how he knew how to get back to the house - he hadn't even thought to memorise the way when he'd been in the carriage, a lifetime ago - but, somehow, he did, in a foul mood.

He stomped inside, not caring that he was tracking mud. At least the rain had been non-acidic, but that by itself wasn't going to make him feel better. He'd been overcome by a weird sort of lethargy once he was out of the castle where transforming into his alt-mode seemed like too much effort, even though he told himself walking back (he nearly called it 'home,' then berated himself for it) would take much longer than simply driving.

He'd walked. In the rain, like the idiot he was. He justified it by saying that with his busted rotor he didn't want to risk it, but that defeated the whole point of triple-changers and was a pathetic lie even to the one person, himself, who would ever know he'd made that excuse.

Didn't matter. He didn't care. He just wanted to recharge and never to speak to anyone ever again.

\---

It felt like an entire orn passed. In whatever substitute reality had taken a back-seat to, it actually took less than two 24-hour cycles for Rodimus to come knocking, holding up the snapped-off rotor blade triumphantly. It was Cyclonus who opened the door; while Springer was still technically supposed to be some sort of domestic servant, he was doing a very poor job of it and was sulking in his room.

"Oh, hi," Rodimus said, as though he was expecting someone else. "You got a 'copter in there? I think I've got something of this." He waved the item in Cyclonus' face to demonstrate. The Prime's presence seemed to fill the whole house, the whole world - although perhaps it was simply that it was his energy field eagerly reaching out to find Springer, swamping Cyclonus in the process.

"Oh! Sorry about that." Somewhat sheepishly, Rodimus made some adjustments and suddenly Cyclonus could focus again. He was no stranger to the sensation in general, but he was more used to it coming from Galvatron and had been taken by surprise. 

"Lord Rodimus!"

As if to demonstrate, Galvatron - lurking somewhere within earshot - promptly shoved Cyclonus aside, although the spacejet was happy to see that an acceptable substitute for 'prince' had been found. "Have you made a decision?"

"Well..."

Retreating into the hallway, Cyclonus wondered if he ought to lock Springer's door. It did happen in the story...no, he decided, it was probably too late for that. Besides, it was a mutual agreement between all of them that any deviation from the script was a victory. Instead he backed off to a respectable distance, ready to come to his Lord's side if he was commanded.

In the end, of course, Springer was called for. Some things you couldn't fight. 

"Ah!" Galvatron snatched the broken blade out of Rodimus' hands. "How can this be his? It could be any helicopter-"

"Oh, right." Springer sighed and turned around, pointing to the rotary array on his back. "Check it out. I cancelled self-repair so the break should still be the same."

"If you please," Rodimus said, grabbing the blade back. "Yep. There we go. True love, happy ending, hooray!"

Silence.

"Can I have it back now?"

A soft hiss filled the air surrounding them. As it grew louder, Springer realized it was a sigh, an ‘Ahh’ of content. Then there was a sudden burst of blinding white light, and someone yelled - it might have been him - when there was an insistent, forceful pull against his body.

The light died down amidst swearing and the small click-click-whirr of resetting optics. “Rodimus-” Arcee’s voice came somewhere off to the right in a warning tone.

“It wasn’t me, I swear! Fraggit, you think I’d be used to this by now-”

“It feels different. Rodimus is more powerful than this.” Springer’s optics came online just in time for him to blink them in surprise at Galvatron’s authoritative statement. Well, he would probably know.

A nervous cough made them all realize they were surrounded by Cephalo, back in the main chamber of the mid-way point - a large, neutral way-station - between Cybertron and the Cephalo homeworld.

“It is good to see you have returned,” one of them said. They ranged from pale cream to vivid sunset-orange, but this one, their elder, was almost rust-coloured in his age. It looked like you could easily snap his outstretched tentacles in two, which wasn’t really something you ought to think about organic flesh but it definitely gave off that impression.

“Yeah. Is everyone here? Where’s Perceptor and Scourge?

“Right here, Rodimus.”

"Oh, did we win? That was a long time, you know, a long time to not be doing anything-"

"Sorry, Blurr."

“My Lord.” Scourge quickly hurried across to stand next to Galvatron. Preceptor followed after him at a much more sedate pace to arrive next to the gathered Autobots. 

“Good.” Rodimus smiled in relief. “All right. Now-” his optics hardened, and he drew himself to his full height - it was always annoyingly easy to forget how tall he was, at least for Springer, who still forgot sometimes that this both was and wasn't Hot Rod. “Someone is going to tell me what all that slag was.”

“Well…”

“If you would look here, Lord Prime,” a younger Cephalo interrupted, pointing his tentacle to the exact centre of the chamber, where there was a small pile of white ash. Rodimus’ optics twitched, almost imperceptibly - Springer only saw it because he was watching as soon as the Cephalo spoke. Rodimus had a history of loudly insisting that only suck-ups called him ‘Lord Prime.’ (Well, and Galvatron when he was feeling particularly vindictive or wanted to make a point, but no-one else needed to know that).

“Tell me what this is.”

“This is…ah…”

“It is my responsibility.” The elder shuffled forward, to the general nervous rustling of the other Cephalo. “I must apologise, Rodimus Prime. What you see are the remains of a Quintesson.”

“We exterminated the Quintessons,” Galvatron growled, taking a heavy step forward to stand next to Rodimus.

“This one was what they call an Ancient,” the elder murmured. “They dislike being reminded they’re mortal, and exiled him. He knew death was not far off. We Cephalo are distant cousins to the Quintessons, you see.”

“He did this? And you all stood back and watched?”

“It was his final wish. As you can see, he departed soon after.”

Arcee folded her arms. “I don’t like this. How do we know there aren’t more of them?”

“You’re telling us this was all one old Quintesson who wanted to frag around with us, just for old times sake?”

Springer stared unhappily at the pile of dust. Even he was prepared to admit that, at this point, punching it was a lost cause.

:This could be advantageous,: Ultra Magnus cut in on the special group link that had been set up just for the Cephalo mission. :They won't want to push us or put up too much resistance after this:

:You sneaky aft!: Rodimus' optics glinted even as he waved off the apologies of the elder Cephalo. :I like it:

:All right, but you all owe me for this: Springer informed them. He wasn't sure if he wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened, or hold on to it forever as an advantage in an argument: 'if you think _your_ life's hard...'

"I think you did a good job, considering the circumstances." Arcee had snuck up on him, interrupting his train of thought as she slipped her hand into his with easy grace. "It could have been much worse."

"Oh, thanks." Both of them knew he didn't really mean the sourness in his tone. It was definitely something unique, that was for sure.

"All's well that ends well," she murmured into his audials. "Wouldn't you say?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, this should not have taken as long as it did. You're amazing if you sat through the wait. Let's all go out for some frosty chocolate milkshakes.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'mysterious beautiful stranger' line is (lovingly) stolen from Terry Pratchett's _Witches Abroad_ ; I couldn't keep my grubby hands off. And I did end up having to look up the official spelling of 'Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo'. Weekend well spent!


End file.
